


Growth

by ThenaCykes



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Cage Fights, Gen, Mild Gore, Self-Mutilation, Set throughout Apocalypse, Warren is an angsty boy with issues, it's mild and not described much, nothing too bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7379692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThenaCykes/pseuds/ThenaCykes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wings aren't nearly as pretty when you're the one who has them. So it's easier to get rid of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growth

The first time, he’s young. Too young to understand why he’s like this. To want to _accept_ that he’s like this.

It isn’t so much the wings themselves, no. He’d thought they were pretty at first, beautiful and soft as anything, even if they were a little heavy. He’d nearly been _proud_ of them. Proud of himself for somehow being good enough to have become an actual angel. He’s far from stupid, though, so when he hears his father talking to one of his associates about the mutant problem, and how they’re a _disease_ and how the ones that don’t even look _human_ are the worst, he puts it together.

Suddenly, they don’t seem as pretty anymore. Suddenly, his pride is swallowed by something worse. Something that’s almost guilt. Suddenly, their weight drags his shoulders down and it feels harder to walk.

So he locks himself up and away, and a while later, his father opens the door to him standing, stock-still in front of the bathroom’s mirror, gaze wide and terrified. His father’s turns the same, when he sees the still open wounds on his back, the jagged tears of skin by each shoulder blade, and he sees the clumped mass of ragged feathers and bone on the floor, blood and flesh still clinging to some of it.

They grow back.

 

* * *

 

The second time is when he’s left. When he knows that his father doesn’t love him, never will when he looks like this, when he’s some mutated freak.

He’s older now. He knows more about how things work, knows more about how the world is, and how it sees him. How it will never see him as anything more than a mutant. So he left, took his father’s money and _ran_ as far as he could get. Turns out that’s Germany, somewhere in the North he thinks.

He’s lost. Everywhere he goes, on the streets, in villages, everywhere he passes, someone whispers. Whispers something about him and his wings. And even though he’s learnt to bear the weight of bone and flesh and feather on his back, it makes it obvious. Every time he hears a hushed voice, he’s so much more aware of them dragging him down. It’s the first time he’s been out in public properly with them, and it’s almost terrifying.

So when he finds a place to stay, he locks himself away again. There’s no one to walk in on him this time, so he stands there for a while, barefoot. Stood amongst the bloody remains of the things he’s come to hate. But, he thinks, at least he’s safe now. At least no one will know.

They grow back.

 

* * *

 

The third time is when they’ve caught him. When they’ve grown back, and he’s found out, and someone looks at him for too long, whispers too much, but he doesn’t care. It’s his downfall really, and then they’re shoving him into a cage.

A genuine cage, metal twisted round and pressed so tightly inwards he has to hunch, twisting and forcing his wings against his back, bone bending in ways that it shouldn’t, electricity sparking and coursing through his body whenever he moves too much. That’s just for transport.

The one he gets shoved into is larger, enough for him to move, and to fly. And when he tries to leave, when he pushes himself up off the ground and tries to rip the grate off, it burns, the same shocks travelling through his system and sending him careening back to the ground. He knows what this is and all he feels is fear, when he’s confronted with his opponent no more than a few moments after he’s hit the floor and burnt his hands open.

And when he fights, it’s a blur. And when he wins, all that fear is forced out by guilt again. The place closes for the time being after that and he’s left by himself, in the dark and cold, forced to dwell on what he just did.

So he takes his time, locked up and away, to rip at them, at the part of himself he wishes he was without, the part that matters the most and matters the least. He grits his teeth through the pain he’s making with his own hands. White crumples and ruins under his fists, burnt palms unfeeling of any softness the feathers he’s tearing out have. Pressed together lips do little to muffle the screams of pain mingled with sheer rage, that echo around the emptiness of the arena, clanging off the metal bars and grating that keeps him trapped. Bone breaks under his strength, arms bending for him to grab over his shoulder at his back, fingers wildly clawing until his hands slice open on the jagged edges of bone he snapped himself, and on the point of the talons he wishes he could tear off.

And no one walks in on him again, not yet, so he’s left slumped against the floor, amongst bent feathers stained red, shattered slivers of bone, the weight of ragged, ruined wings hanging from his back, between shoulders that shake with every angry sob.

They still make him fight the next night. He wins, keeps winning, keeps _hurting,_ by nothing more than sheer, dumb luck, until they grow back again.

And they do grow back.

 

* * *

 

The fourth time is not his fault. It’s not what he wants. Someone else _ruins_ who he is.

He doesn’t like it, not by a long shot. Doesn’t like his being forced into a cage and made to fight, and kill, just because he doesn’t look entirely human. Doesn’t like that the he lives boxed in, caged and unable to feel anything beyond it. Doesn’t like that he hasn’t _seen_ anything beyond it for what he thinks has been months.

But he does it anyway, racks up his kill count until the crowds that swarm in every night scream his name. They call him Angel. The Angel of Death. He hates it. He hates that he knows how to play them, that he has to play them. He hates when he yells his victory, when he turns to the crowd and looks over them to ask for their cheering when the next body falls and hits the floor. But he has to.

The next one is different. His competitor gets the same kind of introduction everybody else does, the same kind he did and he doesn’t think anything of it. He doesn’t think much of the way the kid is called devil when he’s brought in, and looks like the part when they shove him out. They only send the freaks down here, after all. He doesn’t think much of his opponent’s fear, either, of how he looks like a terrified mouse, how it shows in his eyes.

It’ll hurt to strike at him, because he was like that once, shoved in with no warning and forced to entertain. But he’s numbed himself enough so that he can do it. He has to do it. But when he lashes out, wing curved and talon glinting, and the guy disappears and reappears, he figures he’s in for a rough time.

And he’s right, because when he scares the guy into fighting, he fights. And he nearly wins. The Angel of Death nearly loses his title. He doesn’t care about that. He cares about what else he loses.

It’s only one of them, and he can’t tell if that’s worse than losing both of them. It hurts too, hurts like all hell, when the electricity burns through his body, through the bones and flesh and chars it all off. If he let it, it’d hurt his heart, to see the flutter of burnt white fall down and scatter to one side of his feet. He remembers the first night he was here, the same way feathers dropped to the ground, the same smell of faintly burning flesh. For the first time, he _wants_ to do some damage to someone he’s been forced to fight.

That doesn’t happen.

The power goes out somehow and he’s given his shot at freedom, the first taste of the stuff he’s had in a long while. He takes it. He’s out immediately, tearing away the grate in the same way he tried to that first fight, and then he’s gone, off into the night, off somewhere where no one will ever find him, and he can let them grow back in peace.

He’s not given the peace he wants, because in nothing more than a few days, someone comes for him, someone who wants to use him. And he falls for it, falls for the promise of power and of revenge on the people who kept him trapped, who hated him for who he is. What he is.

They’re forced to grow back, but they’re not his.

 

* * *

 

The last time is not his fault either. But it’s relieving. It’s better than it’s ever been, when his wings moult.

He was almost sure he was stuck with them. Almost sure that the remnants of him being manipulated, of his anger at everyone and everything being used against him would be part of him forever. But they’re not, and if he’s anything, he’s grateful. He’s grateful when they change, when they’re not longer hard and cold and cruel like he is.

They’re not the same as they were before. They never will be. But the metal drops out sometimes, clattering against the floor of the warehouse he’s found and made his home again. He always kicks the feathers away, takes them outside and throws them as far as they’ll go. It’s replaced by more metal anyway, the same kind of thing.

But it’s different. It’s lighter, softer, more curved than jagged, as if the damage is repairing itself. The marks are still there on his face, but he doesn’t have a mirror and he can ignore the ones on his torso, and the feathers still clink together when he moves, when metal taps metal. But he almost feels better. Almost feels like he’s gained a victory, no matter how small. A victory on his own terms.

He’s alone, though. It’s how he started this, so it makes sense, but he nearly misses the cage fights, misses the praise and the screams of approval he’d get from winning fights. He’s won this one, even if by the skin of his teeth, and there’s no one to cheer for him now. But he can deal with that.

They’ve grown back.


End file.
